


i will haunt you (when i'm gone)

by eidolith



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidolith/pseuds/eidolith
Summary: In which the "vengeful" spirit haunting the palace at Fhirdiad is someone Sylvain had thought he would never see again.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Blue Lions Students, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 13
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a curiouscat prompt that i got way too carried away with and took way too long to write (so sorry to the poor person who requested this); the prompt was: dimivain - "you're never going to let that go, are you?"

Sylvain's noticed strange happenings going about Castle Fhirdiad lately. Candles blow out at random intervals throughout the day. Quills and ink pots roll off desks and splatter onto the polished marble floors. The chairs in the council rooms are in different places than they were the day before. Icy chills run down spines and whisper into people's ears. 

Edelgard seems to think nothing of it, her head too buried in its huddle with Hubert's and the Professor's as they work on rebuilding a continent they all had a hand in tearing apart.

Ashe on the other hand, seems particularly distressed. He whispers to Sylvain over dinner one night that the palace _must_ be haunted. Beside him, Felix snorts and shoves a spoonful of his stew into his mouth. 

"I would've thought you too old to still get caught up in Mercedes' ghost stories," Felix says. On his left, Mercedes frowns, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Her lips part, but she shuts them just as quickly before excusing herself, whispering something about meeting up with her brother. Ingrid follows, sliding the rest of her stew onto Ashe's plate and scurrying out of the dining hall.

Sylvain has the beginnings of a joke on the edge of his tongue, but the look in Ashe's eyes keeps it at bay, so wide that he sees more of the whites than his seafoam green. His face is so pale that his freckles stand out stark against his skin. His lips are red and scabbed over from where he's worried them with his teeth.

Sylvain hums around the lip of his goblet and pats the back of Ashe's hand. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, Ashe. If ghosts were real, I'm sure they'd have better things to do than rearrange furniture."

Ashe doesn't seem particularly comforted by that. He turns back to his plate, poking at his food half-heartedly with his fork. Any appetite he might've had is long gone, striking, seeing as Sylvain knows that stewed whitefish is his favorite.

"C'mon, Ashe, it's your favorite," he nudges Ashe's ankle with his foot. "Ghost or no ghost, you know you can't be wasteful."

Ashe nods shakily. "Yes, I know," he murmurs around his mouthful. They sit in silence as a chill wafts over them. It's slight, almost unnoticeable due to the open window a few feet away and the coolness of the early spring air outside. 

Ashe sits ramrod still for a few seconds before jumping violently in his seat, his knees knocking painfully into the bottom of the table. His plate upsets and knocks stewed turnips and fish onto his and Felix's laps. He ignores Felix's shout, ignores the startled stares of the rest of the occupants, and runs off, whispering under his breath and covering his ears with his hands. 

Felix is swearing, mopping at the mess on the skirts of his tunic with his napkin. "What the _hell_ is his problem?" 

Sylvain shrugs and pushes his plate aside, appetite gone.

  
  


\- - 

  
  


The next time it happens is during a council meeting. Sylvain, Felix, Ingrid, and Ashe sit at the table along with a smattering of other former Kingdom lords. Currently, Edelgard is saying something about sending delegates to Gautier territory to smooth out relations with Sreng. She's staring at him, her eyes hard and piercing. He drums his fingertips on the polished mahogany, settling his sights on the ruby in the center of Edelgard's headpiece instead of looking at her in the eye. 

After what feels like an eternity, she rips her gaze from him and turns the agenda to the current state of Dominic territory. Whatever it is that she's about to say is interrupted by the rattling of the crystal chandelier above their heads. Immediately, she whips her head to the windows, but they're closed tightly, the trees outside still. Ashe stiffens beside him. 

After a few moments, the rattling stops. Edelgard clears her throat after a few seconds of silence. "Right... As I was saying, seeing as House Dominic is no more, we think it best to absorb their territories into Gaspard," she turns to Ashe. "What say you, Ashe?"

Ashe sits a bit straighter in his seat. "I'd be honored, Your Majesty," he says with a bow of his head. "I... I owe it to Annette to look after what she and her father left behind." His eyes cloud over for a moment, no doubt remembering Annette surrounded by flames with a javelin through the heart. Sylvain remembers too, seeing as he was the one who ran her through. Mercedes and Ingrid had balked the moment they saw her, and Felix pointedly focused his blade on the church soldiers as far away from her as possible. 

Ashe and Sylvain had been sharing a saddle after Ashe's mare had broken her leg at the Tailtean Plains. Ashe’s arrow had been shaking where he had nocked it against his bow. Sylvain unhooked one of the javelins from the pouch at his horse's side and sent it sailing through the air, watching as it lodged itself into Annette's chest. He hoped that he made it quick, but the look of utter betrayal in her eyes along with the wet gurgling noises she made in the pit of her chest told him otherwise.

The spells flinging from her hands sputtered and died while her Relic fell to the ground with a clutter. Gilbert ran to her side and gathered her in his arms, wailing and cursing Sylvain, the Empire, and Edelgard to hell until he pulled the lance from her and plunged it into the side of his neck.

Despite herself, Mercedes ran over with tears in her eyes and her hands glowing with her soft, watery magic. Her freak of a brother had stopped her before she could touch Annette, steering her away and trapping her in his arms as he hoisted the two of them onto his saddle. When they galloped past him and Ashe, all Sylvain could hear was Mercedes' cries muffled into her brother's chest. 

Sylvain clenches his fingers into the knees of his trousers. On his other side, he hears Felix crack his knuckles, a nervous habit he knows that he's never quite grown out of. On Felix's left, Ingrid lets out a shuddering breath. A tingling sensation comes over their side of the table, warm and comforting. Sylvain swears that he sees a lock of Ashe's hair move and tuck behind his ear. Ashe doesn't seem to notice.

The corners of Edelgard's lovely mouth curl up. "Thank you, Ashe. I'm sure that she'd be very happy to know that." The chandelier rattles above them once more. She raises her voice to speak above it. "Now, there's also the matter of what to do with Duscur—" suddenly, the chandelier falls, crashing into the council table in a deafening cacophony of shattered glass and the whoosh of flames from its candles sputtering out.

"It's the ghost!" Ashe hisses, clutching at the sleeves of Sylvain's tunic so tightly his nails poke holes in the fabric. "I _told you_ , the palace is haunted."

Edelgard turns to him, her expression stormy. "Ashe, please, that's ridiculous. That's a very old chandelier, older than myself and King Lambert. It was only a matter of time until it gave out on us."

"Yes, right of course," the new Viscount Kleiman murmurs as he brushes broken glass off of his robes. "Despite how old it is, considering all of the moving objects in the palace, perhaps you should send for a cleansing? Just to be safe."

" _How_?" Spits the new head of House Charon. "All the churches in Fhirdiad are ashes and no priest worth an exorcism would ever agree to it."

" _Enough_!" Edelgard roars. She turns to Hubert. "Hubert, have the maids come and sweep this up."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Hubert croons before slinking away.

Edelgard sighs. "We'll reconvene in the morning. Until then, you're all dismissed." She glides out of the room, her heels clicking heavily against the polished floor.

Sylvain follows after her, tiptoeing over shards of broken glass and splattered candle wax. Maids scurry past him as he makes his way into the hall. 

He sees Mercedes round the corner. "Oh, Sylvain, is everything alright?" She hurries her way toward him. Her hair has grown a bit longer, brushing the tips of her shoulders. She twists a lock of it between her forefingers anxiously. "I just saw Edelgard go by. She seemed upset." 

"Eh, she's fine, Mercedes. I guess she's not dealing with all the... _strange happenings_ going on around here as well as she thinks she is."

"I see..." Mercedes brushes her knuckles against her cheek thoughtfully. "Sylvain, will you answer a question for me?"

"Anything for you, Mercedes."

"Thank you. Now, Gautier territory is in eastern Faerghus, am I right?" At Sylvain's nod, she smiles and continues. "Well, from what I remember, there are legends in eastern Faerghus about what happens to the souls of those who die with regret." She pauses for a moment. "...Annie used to sing a song about it, do you remember?"

Of course he does. He also remembers Felix and Claude teasing her mercilessly about it. “Yeah, I do. Something about creepity creeps?”

Mercedes chuckles sadly. “Yes, that’s how it went. Well, from what I know, those souls... they wander through a different plane of existence, unable to pass on and find peace. They linger within that plane in constant, terrible agony, wailing and wailing for someone, _anyone_ to help them."

"So... you _do_ think that we're being haunted?"

"I wouldn't necessarily be so sure, but the people of Faerghus have always been deeply spiritual. The goddess is— _was_ said to be within every one of its citizens, its royal family. It... it wouldn't surprise me if the souls of Kingdom soldiers we've killed lingered, unable to return to the goddess. I'm not originally from Faerghus, so I can't speak for the people, but you must know what I mean, don't you?"

Betrayal. Of course Sylvain knows. It’s not as if he was deaf to all the jeers that the Kingdom soldiers had thrown at him, Felix, and Ingrid. _Traitors_ , they had called them. _Heretics_ , another group of them had said.

Now, he’s never been a truly devout man. He can’t imagine himself becoming one of those souls; whatever belief or love he had for the goddess, he imagines that a little bit of it died with every blow that Miklan had ever given him. When he dies, he’s fairly sure she wouldn’t be waiting for him at those pearly gates that his Scripture teacher told him about when he was a child. He’s fairly sure that the goddess wasn’t there waiting for any of his former countrymen, either. Even now, one year later, the Immaculate One’s body still sits in the dungeons of the palace, scales still singed, blood still congealed in exit and entrance wounds, but whole and free of rot. 

Mercedes clasps her fingers together and holds them close to her heart. "If... if this poor soul is one of them, they must be in great pain. Maybe they're trying to get us to help them? It's... it's quite sad, don't you think? Oh, I don't know how much good prayer would do, considering all that's happened, but I'll pray for their peace... It’s the least I can do after all I’ve done to the people.”

  
  


\- - 

  
  


Later that night, Sylvain lays in his borrowed bed in the north wing of the palace. It’s silent and cold despite the crackling fire in the hearth. Tiny white clouds puff from his mouth with each exhale, and shivers wrack him from deep in his chest.

"Okay, Mr. Ghost,” he whispers into the darkness. “If you're really there, why don't you give me a sign?"

Silence.

He sits up. "Alright... If you don't like me... uh,” his eyes dart around the room and land on the sconce next to the doorway, where a candelabra sits. The candles burn dimly, washing the room in its sickly orange glow. “Put out those candles. The ones by the door."

The candles continue to burn.

"Okay, if you do like me, put out the candle."

The flames go out with a soft whisper.

" _Okay_ ," Sylvain murmurs. "Okay, so you don't want to hurt me?" Silence echoes throughout his room. He pulls himself out from under the covers and presses his fingertips to the wicks of each candle. He surges fire from his blood and lights them again. "If you don't want to hurt me, show me a sign."

He feels something brush against the curve of his cheek, a soft exhalation into his ear canal. The flames flicker with the soft rush of air. There's no words, none that he can tell. "So you're friendly?" Another icy blow in his ear. "Then why did you drop that chandelier on us?" The stroking at his face stills and the breathing stops.

"Did I say something wrong?" The chill surrounding him dissipates. "Hey, I didn't mean to make you feel bad." Sylvain bites at a hangnail. "Did you want to hurt me then?" The touching at his face returns, cold though it is, it's gentle, like the touch of a lover. "Did you wanna hurt Felix? Ingrid? Ashe?" The whisper returns, its timbre forming into what sounds suspiciously like the word, "no".

"...What about Edelgard?" The energy surrounding him magnifies by a factor of ten, pushing the air out of his lungs and the warmth from his blood. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"So you don't like Edelgard, huh? Then I guess you must've been a soldier in the war... If it makes you feel any better, I don’t blame you," he says with a chuckle. "Though she's not that bad when you get to know her, though, I promise."

The oppressing energy doesn’t dissipate. It still fizzles around him, like static on a cold, dry Faerghus day. “I guess not, huh? Sorry. I... I don’t really know what I’m apologizing for, but it feels right to say.”

He can’t tell if they accept his apology or not.

"Can you, um, make your presence known to me? That is, uh, can you show yourself?"

There's a flicker in the corner of his eye, a shimmer of dust particles hovering by the orange glow of the candles. There's just the slightest hint of a shape, fuzzy around the edges, but a shape all the same. He can make out the outline of shoulders, hunched low, and the hint of Faerghus blue.

"Is that you?"

The whispering groan is his answer.

"Okay... But I still can't really see you. You're still kind of fuzzy."

Sylvain steps forward and around the shape. He bites his tongue to keep the surprised shout building in his chest away. Aymr’s jagged edges never made clean cuts—where the head once sat on broad shoulders is now nothing but a tangled mass of sinew and viscera, still oozing and pulsing blood that doesn’t stain his borrowed carpet when it drips to the floor. There’s no mistaking the familiar mass of Faerghus wolf fur around the shoulders, or the blond head cradled in the body’s arms. The eyes blink at him, just as alert and clear as they were back when they were in class. They pin him down, not through the limbs like Edelgard’s do, but through the heart, like one of the preserved insects Bernadetta keeps in her room.

“D-Dimitri...”

Dimitri’s lips curve into a smile, not quite as warm and sincere as it had been when they were children, but no sound comes when he parts them. He mouths words, over-exaggerating the movements so he can read his lips easier.

“I... I guess it must be hard to talk if you don’t have any vocal cords, huh?”

If Dimitri could nod, he imagines he would. His hands move his head up and down in a bastardization of the movement. His legs walk him to the small chair at the desk in the corner of the room. He never realized how tall Dimitri had gotten until he sits, dwarfing the tiny thing. But then again, he probably wouldn’t have noticed even if he had spent those five years with him—he had grown apart from Dimitri the exact same time Felix and Ingrid had. 

Sylvain slips his hands deep into the pockets of his sleep pants. “I’ve gotta say, Your Highness,” Sylvain says, falling back into old habits—the Dimitri he knew wasn’t King yet. He doesn’t even have a name. He hasn’t had one in almost ten years. “I would’ve thought you too mature to throw temper tantrums. I mean, dropping inkpots and chandeliers? You’re not a toddler.”

Dimitri doesn’t seem to look all that embarrassed about it. He lifts his headless shoulders and drops them in the semblance of a shrug. 

“So what’s your reason? Were you trying to take Edelgard down with you?” Sylvain presses. “A few more inches to the left and you would’ve nailed her.”

Dimitri’s eyes flicker away from him.

Sylvain makes an undignified noise, cold and mean. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?” He sneers. “Well, I guess now I understand why you’re still here.”

Dimitri’s eyes go wide, and his lips are moving so fast that Sylvain couldn’t read them even if he had the talent for it. Despite how wide they are, his eyes are still clear—there’s the mania that Felix and the Imperial propaganda always insisted on, but despite that, there’s no sneer to the lips, no sharpened canines, nothing really _beastly_ about him at all.

Sylvain knows beasts. His earliest memory had to be the hunting trip his father took him on when he was old enough to wield his first lance. He remembers the face of the wolf pup he skewered that day, snarling and spitting at him. _That_ was a beast. A tiny beast, but still a beast. His brother turned into one, Dedue turned into one, hell, half the entire Kingdom army turned into beasts at the Tailtean Plains.

He had made it a point to stay as far away from Dimitri as he could when they fought there, made it a point not to even _look_ at him, let alone speak with him. Ingrid, Mercedes, and Ashe had kept close by him, while Felix stormed ahead with Edelgard and Byleth. He vaguely remembers the low timbre of Dimitri’s voice roaring across the pouring rain and cracks of thunder at Edelgard, but no words come to mind.

He supposes he was too preoccupied with Dedue, or what was left of him under piles of demonic tissue and teeth. It had taken most of them to take him down, and by the time the dust and rain cleared, Dimitri’s head was gone from his shoulders and strung up by his hair in Edelgard’s fist. Dimitri’s face was frozen in anger, with just the slightest hint of sadness wrinkling his eyebrows.

The monster that was once Dedue laid there in the mud and wailed in a low, mournful note that resonated across the rest of the beasts that still stood like wolves in a howl. They cried and cried, bowing their bodies in Dimitri’s direction and tore at their faces and mouths with their claws until they bled out into the ground.

A deep, guttural sound breaks through Sylvain’s thoughts. It’s coming from Dimitri, not quite from his mouth, not quite from his shredded throat. It’s a wet sound, and it pushes more vital fluid from the corners of his lips and from the bottom of his neck. It just barely makes its way into words, but Sylvain can hear what he’s trying to say.

“...No? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Ah... ah...” the rattling in his torn vocal cords grinds against Sylvain’s ears. “...nette...”

“Annette?” Sylvain whips his head around the room, half expecting to see her lingering in the corners of his room with his javelin sticking out of her chest. “...Is she here?”

“...No...”

“Then where is she?”

“D-dedue...” Dimitri groans. His fingers clench into the sides of his head tightly, mussing his already messy hair and warping his features with the pressure of his grip. It squeezes more blood and guts out from his neck until they land in his lap with a sickening squelch.

“Hey, hey, Your Highness, take it easy,” Sylvain’s hands hover over Dimitri’s wrists. Somehow, he’s able to brush his fingers against the armor. He shivers at the sensation, cold as ice and slimy with something that doesn’t quite feel like blood. He wraps his hands around them and pries them away from his head. “What about them? What about Annette and Dedue?”

Dimitri’s wrists flex under Sylvain’s fingers. “M...miss... need... them...” Dimitri’s fingers gesture vaguely to the air around them.

Dimitri’s babbling is deafened by the knocking at Sylvain’s door. “Sylvain?” It’s Byleth. “Sylvain, I’m coming in.” The doorknob turns and in the doorway and she stands, dressed in a simple black nightgown and holding a lit candelabra. Her eyes are blank in a way that reminds him of when they first met.

Dimitri sobs, shoving Sylvain’s hands away and standing up so abruptly that he pushes Sylvain to the ground. He has one hand curled under his head while the other reaches out toward the hand Byleth has hooked into her candlestick. She shudders when it passes through her. Dimitri falls to his knees before her and wraps his free arm around her waist, wailing and wailing into her dress.

“Sylvain, is everything alright?” Byleth’s low, raspy voice is hard to parse over the noises Dimitri makes. She steps through him and into Sylvain’s room. “I was passing by your room and I heard... something. You sounded upset.”

“I...” Sylvain isn’t really looking at her. He keeps his eyes on Dimitri, on the tears falling from his eyes and on the anguished wrinkle of his eyebrows. Dimitri’s gotten to his feet again and tries to catch Byleth’s attention, he tugs at her dress, her hands, but nothing touches her, he calls out to her in his garbled ghost language, but she can’t hear him. “Yeah, I’m fine, Professor.”

“Then you probably shouldn’t sleep on the floor,” she says, her voice fond. She hoists him up and guides him to his bed. “Get some rest, will you?” She gives his shoulder a firm pat. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She gives him one of her tiny smiles and starts to make her way out of his room, stepping through Dimitri’s body one more time.

“...Professor?” Byleth stops in his doorway and turns toward him. “Do you… do you believe in ghosts?”

There’s a pregnant pause between them. “...I’m not sure,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

Sylvain watches Dimitri get to his feet and stumble out of the room. Mangled sounds in the vague shape of Dedue’s and Annette’s names echo throughout the hallway. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Sweet dreams, Professor.”

“...Sweet dreams, Sylvain.” She leaves the room and shuts the door softly behind her. Despite the layers of wood and concrete, Dimitri’s voice still seeps through the cracks in the walls.

Sylvain doesn't sleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

He finds Dimitri in the halls the next morning after the meeting. He’s standing in the middle of the main foyer, staring at a blank spot of wall that Sylvain knows used to hang the portrait of the royal family. Dimitri brushes his fingers against the wall, leaving behind an imprint of slime in the shape of a hand. His eyes are squinting hard at the empty space, and his lips are moving silently.

Sylvain walks over to him and leans against the wall beside him. He plasters a smile on his face and waves at the few early morning passers-by. They don’t take much interest in him, offering sleepy nods and waves in return. “Your Highness?” Sylvain murmurs. He takes care to speak to Dimitri out of the corner of his mouth.

Dimitri grunts. He steps away from the wall and takes in the changed color palette of the palace. Pots of azure hydrangeas are replaced with red carnations, and the royal blue drapery, carpets, and walls are now all differing shades of scarlet. The maids and knights that scurry to and fro now wear black and red. The decorative ceremonial lances that once covered the walls are replaced with ornate axes. At the castle doors, the Faerghus gryffon flag is replaced with the Adrestian eagle. 

“Sure is different, isn’t it?” Sylvain says. “Blue always seemed like such a sad color.” He reaches out and pinches a corner of Dimitri’s cloak. “But it always looked good on you, Your Highness.” Dimitri inclines his body toward him and pulls his cloak away. 

Sylvain gestures vaguely to the wall between them. “It burned when Rhea set the city on fire,” Sylvain says. He tugs his cuff over the heel of his palm and wipes away the residue Dimitri’s palm left behind. It's thick and viscous, hard to clean with dry cloth. He made sure to burn the chair Dimitri sat on the night before in the hearth when it was clear that the slime he left behind wouldn't budge. “The portrait, I mean. And, well, everything else. The fire spread all the way here and burned down the entire foyer. Sorry.”

Dimitri doesn’t say anything. He lifts his hand and points to Sylvain’s left. Byleth is walking towards them. Peacetime has been good to her, Sylvain thinks. Her dark hair is cut short, shorter than his own. It frames her delicate features in a way her longer hair never did, hardening the softness in her cheeks and chin. She still sticks to her neutral black outfits unlike everyone else in their class who now wears Adrestian red. Her skimpy outfit is heavier with the colder climate in Fhirdiad. Her overcoat billows around her even if there isn't a breeze. 

Dimitri makes a noise, but a glance in his direction tells Sylvain that he's… composed. His face is still twisted in anguish and he shifts his weight from foot to foot to keep himself from running into her arms like he did the night before, though not that Byleth would be able to catch him.

“Sylvain, I need you to come with me,” she says, blunt and to the point like she always is. She doesn't wait for a response before walking straight past him and Dimitri.

“W-wait, Professor!” Sylvain jogs after her, and Dimitri follows. She leads them through a few corridors before stopping in front of one of the lesser used conference rooms. 

“I need to speak with you about something that… I know you have expertise in.” Byleth says.

Sylvain raises a brow. “I'd be happy to, Professor, but it'd be a little easier if you'd let me know what it is. Afraid to tell you there's not much I'm good at other than charming the ladies.” He feels the ghostly pinch of Dimitri's fingers at the back of his neck. Dimitri never cared much for self-deprecation, the hypocrite.

“That's... what I need your help with,” she says quietly. A fine dust of pink covers the bridge of her nose. “With… with Edelgard.”

Sylvain’s mind goes blank for a moment. He knows about Byleth and Edelgard. Hell, _everyone_ knows about them. For all her harsh refinery, Edelgard is about as subtle about her feelings for Byleth as a sledgehammer. “I appreciate your honesty, Professor, but,” he gestures to the glittering ring on her finger. “I think you and her have charmed each other enough, don't you think?” 

“There's still more to do,” she says pointedly. She crosses her arms and stares him down. “Don't act dumb. You know what it is that I mean.”

 _Oh_. Beside them, Dimitri looks incredibly uncomfortable. He shuffles his feet and makes a shy little noise. Sylvain watches him gesture an awkward goodbye with his hand before he walks away from them and passes through the stone walls that separate them from the city streets outside.

Sylvain bites his tongue to keep himself from laughing. Even in death, Dimitri is still the same blushing virgin prude he was when they were teenagers. Countless mornings come to mind in the dining hall, of a red-faced Dimitri pointedly not looking him in the eye when Sylvain kissed his date goodbye. Of Dimitri burying his face in his hands when Sylvain described the night in detail to an unimpressed Felix. Of Dimitri’s bashful eyes when Sylvain swept him onto the dancefloor at the ball and curled his hand into the small Dimitri’s back. Of Dimitri tucking his forehead into Sylvain’s shoulder once Sylvain slipped his chilled fingers underneath the back of his evening coat when the music slowed to a soft, intimate tempo. Sylvain remembers leaning his cheek against Dimitri’s silken hair, feeling the vibrations of Dimitri's humming against his sternum. 

It brings a smile to his face, and a pang to his heart. Suddenly, a part of him almost wishes he had seen Dimitri at the plains before his head has been torn from his shoulders. If just to see if Dimitri would look at him the same way he looked at him that night, or if he could even remember it. 

He shakes his head to rid himself of those thoughts. “Very well, my dear Byleth,” he gestures to the room with a flourish. “Not to worry. Professor Sylvain is here to impart all the knowledge you'll need.” 

Byleth rolls her eyes and steps into the room. Not even a second passes before she slams the door shut behind him when he follows and bolts the lock shut. “ _Sit_ ,” she hisses at him, pointing at one of the chairs at the conference table in the center of the room.

“Wait a sec, I thought I was the--” Sylvain stammers.

“ _Shut up.”_ Byleth grabs a handful of his tunic and throws him into a chair. She's glaring at him, eyes hard. “How long has Dimitri been here?”

Sylvain’s mind goes blank for a moment. “W...what do you mean?”

“Cut the bullshit, Sylvain,” Byleth says. “I know that was Dimitri in your room last night. And I know that was Dimitri that just walked through that wall.” She jabs an accusing finger in the direction that Dimitri just disappeared to. “ _Explain_.”

Hot, unbridled anger surges through him. “Wait, you saw him? Why didn’t you say anything?” Sylvain stands up and glares at her. “You saw him and you just _watched_ ?” He steps forward and relishes in the steps she takes back, of the surprise in her eyes. Dimitri’s wails cut into his memory. The desperation in his eyes and the wordless grunts he made when he tried to get her attention. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you?” 

“I… I had to make sure it was him.” Byleth steps away from him and crosses her arms beneath her chest. She’s quiet for a long moment, her gaze locked in the direction of the hallway. “It… it _is_ him, isn’t it? The one causing all the damage here?”

“Yeah, I think so…” Sylvain murmurs.

Byleth takes a deep breath and shoves her fingers into her hair.. “Do you know why he’s… lingering?”

“No, no I don’t.” Sylvain says. “I… I tried to get him to tell me but,” he gestures to his throat. “It’s kind of hard for him to talk.”

Byleth grimaces. 

“But he kept calling for Annette and Dedue,” Sylvain says. “ _All_ night long.”

She brushes her knuckles against her cheek pensively. “Perhaps I should’ve seen something like this happening.”

Sylvain narrows his eyes at her. “Seen what?”

“Well, I won’t claim to have known Dimitri as well as you did, but,” she pauses. “He… did tell me that the reason he was at the Academy was for revenge…”

Sylvain cuts her off. “He’s not here to kill us.”

“And how do you know that?”

Sylvain crosses his arms. “Because I asked him.”

“How do you know he's telling the truth?”

“Dimitri doesn't lie,” Sylvain says. He's too damned earnest, too sincere to lie to anyone. “You’re right. You didn’t know him like I did.”

Byleth is silent for a few long moments. Her jaw works harshly, the grind of her teeth audible. “...Sylvain, whoever Dimitri was when we fought at the Plains, I… I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the boy you knew.” 

“Look, Professor. He’s able to touch things. _I_ was able to touch _him_. If… if he really wanted to hurt us, then I think we’d all be dead by now. And I don’t think he ever really wanted to.”

"And what about Edelgard?" Byleth asks. "I heard about what happened yesterday." 

"I..." Sylvain trails off. "I don't have a definite answer to that." As emphatic as Dimitri was about not meaning to, Sylvain can't say for sure. He imagines he cares too much about Byleth herself to do anything to Edelgard, but the excuse sounds flimsy, even to him.

Byleth sighs unhappily through her nose. “Fine. I’ll believe you,” says says after another pregnant pause. She steps toward him and jabs a finger into his chest. Her nail scrapes against the center of his collarbone. "But you’re going to have to figure out how to fix this. And when you do, I’ll help you." The hardness in her gaze softens a fraction. "I think we at least owe it to him to try and help him take care of whatever unfinished business he might have. Or whatever reason ghosts might have for… sticking around.”

Sylvain pats the back of her hand. “Don’t you worry, Professor. I won’t let him down. I promise.”

Byleth gives him a firm nod. "See that you don't."

\- - 

Churches are hard to come by these days. Almost all of the ones in Fhirdiad were burnt to their skeletons, and all the ones that survived were immediately torn down brick by brick. Only one church remains standing in the city. Edelgard was insistent on its construction, and even more insistent on its surveillance by the state. There are Imperial guards stationed outside and inside, supervising the priests and nuns who give sermons to the nearly empty pews. The Seiros regalia, the statues, the artwork, and the stained glass are all gone. The common masses recoil at the sight of Imperial soldiers, jeer at the rewritten doctrine, and sneer at the state appointed clergy. More than once has a brick been tossed at the now plain windows that replaced the opulent stained glass ones. The more devout have taken to congregating in homes, away from the prying eyes of soldiers. Sylvain knows this because Mercedes attends quite a few from time to time. 

“They’re trying to preserve what they remember of mass before the war.” Mercedes said to him one day. She says she misses the tradition, the comfort of what the old doctrine gave her when she was young. Sylvain keeps it their little secret, and mentions nothing when Edelgard questions Mercedes’ unscheduled absences from the palace infirmary.

Alongside her medic duties in the palace infirmary, Mercedes had set up her own orphanage in one of the smaller hollowed-out churches outside the city. Sylvain remembers the outside of the building being plain and drab, full of orphans that outnumber the roofs built by the Empire to house them, orphans who cry at the sight of imperial soldiers and Adrestian red. Mercedes makes sure to wear her Kingdom blues and keep all her battle scars hidden when she wipes tears from their grubby faces and offers her Mercedes-brand of comfort that only she can give.

She insists on him visiting when she writes to him in her letters, when they pass each other in the halls. He gently turns her down each time, but now, with Dimitri floating beside him as he steers his mare toward the tiny house up the horizon outside Fhirdiad, he suddenly wishes he had taken her up on her offer sooner.

Sylvain reins his horse to the small stable beside the orphanage. Despite its splintered wooden walls, it looks much homier than the last time he saw it. Colorful scrawls cover the walls outside. Crudely drawn gryffons, lions, knights wielding lances, and little snowfields are the most common that he can see. A tiny garden is struggling despite the early spring frost covering the leaves of blue hydrangeas and forget-me-nots. Little green tomatoes and strawberries are budding from the soil.

He turns to Dimitri. “You stay out here. Can’t have you spooking the kids any more than they already are.” Dimitri nods with his arms and disappears into the thicket of trees nearby.

Sylvain knocks on the door once, twice, three times. After a few moments, it groans open and Sylvain finds himself eye to eye with Jeritza. His usually baleful eyes shift into what looks like confusion. His hair is a mess, sticking this way and that. He’s holding a small, sleepy-faced toddler in his free arm. Their face is pressed into his shoulder and their hand is fisted in a chunk of his hair. Behind him, the sounds of home spill out into the doorway where they stand, the sounds of children’s laughter and the clunking of wooden toys against wooden floors. 

“Margrave Gautier,” Jeritza says in his usual drawl. He shifts the child in his arms and gently pries their hand out of his hair. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“Um, I’m looking for Mercedes,” Sylvain says. His fingers itch to take the kid away from him. “Is she here?”

Jeritza says nothing, but the shift of his head in his direction tells him to come in. Jeritza is barefoot, stepping over discarded toys and scraps of doodled paper in a way that reminds Sylvain of a cat. He turns a corner in the next doorway and speaks softly. Within seconds, Mercedes scurries into the room. She has a babbling, rosy-cheeked infant in her arms. Jeritza puts the toddler down and takes the baby from Mercedes, tucking their head into the crook of his neck. He takes the other child’s hand and leads them up the stairs, leaving Mercedes and Sylvain alone in the modest foyer.

“Sylvain, what a pleasant surprise!” She wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him tightly. “Did you come to help with the children? They'd love to see you again.”

Sylvain takes her hands between his and gives them a pat. “Sorry. Not much of a caregiver quite yet, Mercedes. I came by because I needed to talk to you about… something important. Would the kids mind if I steal you for a sec?”

“Oh, I'm sure they'll be fine. Emile’s more than capable of looking after them without me there,” she says, giving Sylvain a gentle nudge towards the doorway. 

When they walk back into the yard, Dimitri is waiting for them. Mercedes stumbles a bit, and Sylvain feels the impact of her face meeting his shoulder blade. When he glances back at her, her face is white as a sheet. She lifts a trembling finger and points at Dimitri. “S-Sylvain, is that...?” 

When Sylvain turns his head towards Dimitri again, he’s nowhere to be seen, but groans filter into his ears despite the sudden rush of wind blowing past them. 

Mercedes clutches the back of Sylvain’s tunic with shaky fingers. “Sylvain… That was Dimitri I just saw, wasn’t it?” Her voice is wobbly with tears. Mercedes doesn’t cry very often. The only time Sylvain ever saw her cry was the day the Kingdom fell. 

She doesn’t wait for him to respond before she rushes past him, uncaring of the thin layer of snow soaking into her knitted socks. “Dimitri? Dimitri! If that was you, please come back. Let me see you.”

Silence rings between them for what feels like an eternity. Eventually, Dimitri pokes out from behind a large pine tree some paces away. Mercedes hides her wet gasp behind her fingers and hurries toward him, her arms outstretched.

She stops in her tracks when Dimitri holds up a hand and backs away from her. His other cradles his head to his side and underneath his cape. Mercedes moves toward him again, slowly and carefully, and kneels before him in the snow. Her hands hover in the empty space between the two of them before she brushes her fingertips against Dimitri's cheeks, uncaring of the ooze that covers them. 

“Please, Dimitri, you don't have to hide from me,” she says softly. She tugs him from underneath his cape and sweeps his hair from his eyes. “I've missed you. Very much.”

Somehow, Dimitri's eyes fill with tears. His mouth opens and closes around noises that can’t form into words.

“It was you all this time, wasn’t it?” Mercedes asks. “You were trying to reach out to us?”

Dimitri’s arms move his head up and down into a nod. 

Mercedes takes his head from his hands and presses it to her heart. “Oh, Dimitri,” she whispers tearfully into his hair. “I… I can't even begin to tell you how much I've missed you.” She pulls away and cradles him in her lap. “It's good to see you,” she says. She glances up at Dimitri's body, at the tangled mess of organ and tissue on top of his headless shoulders. “Even like this.” She says this with a determined finality.

Mercedes sits there in the snow for a long while, stroking Dimitri’s hair and murmuring soft words into the air. She stands and makes her way back to Sylvain. “I'm guessing this is what you wanted to talk about, right Sylvain?” 

Sylvain takes one look at Dimitri's head in her arms and backs away a step. He tries to ignore the way Dimitri’s expression falls. “You've got it right on the money.”

Mercedes looks down at Dimitri. “Is… Is Annie with you, Dimitri?” 

Sylvain can't see the expression Dimitri makes, but judging from the sadness in Mercedes eyes, he can only assume that it says, “no”.

“I see…” She brushes at Dimitri’s hair once more and hands him back to his body. Her dress is covered in ooze. 

“Mercedes,” Sylvain starts. “You’ve got a little…” He gestures at the stains covering her torso. Beside her, Dimitri looks incredibly guilty.

She takes Dimitri’s fingers between hers and pats the back of his hand. “It’s okay. I’m a master when it comes to mending clothes,” she squeezes his hand and smiles at him. “Isn’t that right?”

Dimtri smiles at her and grunts in agreement. 

Mercedes chuckles and leans her cheek against his shoulder. It’s a surreal sight, Mercedes’ smile easy and warm as it always is, her hair brushing against the tip of her nose where it curls against Dimitri’s shoulder. If it weren’t for the mess of gore sitting on the tops of Dimitri’s shoulders and his bloody head sitting in his own hands, they would look like two normal people, two friends reunited. 

Sylvain clears his throat awkwardly. “I… We’ve gotta do something about His Highness.”

Mercedes frowns at him. “How do you mean?”

“I… I don’t know. I figured you’d be the right person to ask.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” 

“Because you…” he gestures lamely with his hands. “You know about this stuff.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. She glances at her hand, where her fingers are tangled with Dimitri’s. “...Sorry, Sylvain. I’m afraid the ghost stories I tell don’t exactly have happy endings.” Mercedes says. “They don't really tell you how to help them pass on, and the Scripture doesn’t exactly have a guide on this sort of thing.”

Dimitri starts babbling. Mercedes startles at looks at him, frowning as she tries to read the words his lips try to form. He wrestles his hand free from her and gestures to the horizon where the tallest spire of Castle Fhirdiad is visible along the skyline, gestures to his throat, gestures to the south in the direction of the Plains, to the east in the direction of Fraldarius. He looks pleadingly at Sylvain. His eyes are begging him to understand what he’s saying.

Sylvain holds his gaze and shakes his head. “Sorry, Your Highness.”

Dimitri lets out a growl of frustration. He tears away from Mercedes and kicks at a nearby tree stump. Sylvain’s only slightly horrified to see that Dimitri’s monstrous strength seems to have lingered after his death when the stump explodes in a rain of splinters. 

Mercedes heaves a sad sigh. She places a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder and rubs it back and forth. “It’ll be okay, Dimitri. We’ll figure something out. I promise.”

Sylvain crosses his arms and taps his foot against the frosted ground. “Maybe Ashe can help.”

Mercedes and Dimitri share puzzled looks. “Do you really think Ashe is the best person to ask? He’s deathly afraid of ghosts. He never lasted to the end of any of my stories.” 

“He always seemed to know more about ghosts than he let on," Sylvain says. There were many a day where Sylvain saw Ashe had his nose buried in a dusty, water-damaged Abyss book, Lysithea beside him clutching at his sleeve while their eyes roamed across the page. "Besides, out of all of us, he'd be the safest to go to next, don't you think?" 

Dimitri winces, but stays silent.

Mercedes takes Dimitri by the hand once more. "I'll be in Fhirdiad next week," she turns to Sylvain. "You'll know where to find me. If you need me again, let me know. I'll do anything I can to help." She reaches for Sylvain's hand and gives it a squeeze. "Make sure you look after each other, okay?"

"We will," Sylvain leans over and nudges Dimitri with his elbow. "Right, Your Highness?"

Dimitri meets his gaze nods with his free hand.

Mercedes' smile is absolutely blinding. "I know you will," she says firmly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said the next chapter would be up "soon" but... y'know. life. sorry about that.
> 
> ANYWAY next chapter sylvian continues to gather his heist crew to help appease dimitri's spirit. what do you think is keeping him tethered to this mortal plane of existence? let me know!
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated!


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